


Prompt Fics

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you need a spark to light the fire. This is a collection of my prompt fics from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amsterndam + Doctor/Rose + Spies; three sentences

He thinks he’s been discreet, this tall lanky man with the wild brown hair that’s popped into the corner of vision everywhere she’s been — two stools down at the tiny medieval bar she frequented, three tables over while she’s eating her pancakes, biking just behind her in the evening Centruum traffic — until he slid into her favorite booth two days ago while was she rolled her evening joint. He flirted and she flirted back and she knows he thinks he’d gotten the upper hand when her stockinged foot slid against his calf while he stirred his third coffee. 

He doesn’t realize she’s been watching him back, waiting for him, planning; he’s got the moves, she thinks as she leans in to touch this evening’s joint to his lit match, lip plump and curved into a sultry smile, and she’s just the agent to use them against him. 


	2. Doomsday AU + Rose/Ten + red, three sentences

For a moment all he can see is red: red blood staining the rivers on Arcadia, red earth shaking under silver trees as Gallifrey burns, red spreading across white plaster, dripping onto the white floor. His feet are touching the floor again but it takes minutes — too many minutes — for him to feel it and then he is at her side against the wall of the Ghost Shift room, cradling her head, looking for the source of the bleed, for a way to stop it.

It’s a gash near her temple where her head bashed against the wall, nanoseconds after the breach closed, and her breath is warm and slow against his neck as he cradles her, babbling English words like her name and “you’re here” and words she will never understand, that no one will ever understand again, that mean things like “don’t leave me” and “I love you” and “forever,” and when she groans, rousing slowly and probably with a bad concussion, he presses his mouth to hers, hard and relieved and scared and thankful and when he pulls back her lips are so, so red. 


	3. Nine/Rose + london calling, three sentences

"You’re a punk," he says in astonishment, definitely  _not_ watching all her jiggly bits jiggle as she bops about the kitchen, singing along with Joe Strummer as she makes their tea.

"It’s not punk," she shoots back with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her hips, her Union Jack t-shirt bunching and scrunching just above it, "It’s  _The Clash_.”

As he sips the tea she hands him he can’t help but imagine her in zippers and leather, and then just leather, and then  _his_ leather, his leather jacket and nothing else and even though every cell in his body cries out for him to do it, to bring that vision to life (shouldn’t be too hard, he’s seen the way she looks at him when she thinks he’s not paying attention) he walks away, walks back to the console room instead to set the coordinates for 1979 when the time rotor suddenly flashes mauve.


	4. Barcelona (city, not the planet), tentoo/rose, drunk; three sentences

They’d passed the point of “too much sangria” hours ago, but that didn’t stop them, sundrunk and giddy. He smells of sea salt and fresh air and red wine-soaked fruits and his chest, bared by an unbuttoned shirt, is tawny from sun and she thinks she might be a little more drunk on him than she is on drink. They stumble back to their hotel in twilight, her pressed close into his side and him shouting “How’s ‘e smell?” every time they pass an innocent Spaniard walking their dog.

There is another pitcher and two glases waiting on their balcony when they get back to their room and he spills his first sip down his front. He’s giggling too hard and it’s a good thing he sits down when she drops to her knees and cleans him up with her tongue. 


	5. Rio + Ten/Rose + Jealousy

It is not, he tells himself firmly, the very tan young man she’s talking to that’s getting to him. Nor is it the incredibly tiny bikini she’s donned, nor the sand clinging to her hips, nor the way her hair seems to catch fire in the sunset; he has seen all of this and more and not felt this particular twist in the pit of his stomach.

No, he insists to himself with a sharp nod, it’s the banana daiquiri she’s sipping, plump lips around the slim straw and throat working with each swallow; he has never wanted or wanted to be a frozen drink so badly in all his lives. 


	6. Rose/Tentoo, unusual proposal, 300 words

“Why don’t  _we_  have a machine like this? “

Rose looks up from the paper, eyes bleary behind her glasses. She’s wrapped in a ratty robe, trying to will the Doctor to make coffee faster. They’re at her parents’ house, watching Tony for the weekend, so instead of her usual drip workhorse there is a silver monstrosity of an espresso machine the Doctor just adores.

 He has his back to her and she admires the lines of his shoulder under his thin vest. His arm flexes as he hooks the handle into the group head.

 “Because it’s very, very expensive,” she says, resting her head on her chin and closing her eyes against the persistent throb under her forehead. The television in the living room blares noise as Tony watches Saturday morning cartoons with rapt attention. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

 “Why not?” The machine groans as it forces water through grounds and the Doctor looks back at her over his shoulder as he pours milk into a frothing cup. “We both work. A lot. Far too much.”

 ” _Pete_  didn’t even want to buy it,” she points at him but he’s turned away again, turning off the hot water flow, clearing the steaming wand and immersing it in milk, “Said it was too expensive. Mum had to put it on their wedding registry.”

 “Why? Is it OK to spend that much money if it’s for a wedding?”

 He sounds thoughtful and normally that would worry her but her latte is almost done and she wants it  _now_ , only he’s fiddling with the milk he just poured.

 “Basically,” she shrugs. “Is my coffee ready yet?”

 “Well, that depends,” He turns and places the mug before her. There is a crudely drawn ring in the froth. “Will you marry me?”


	7. TenToo/Rose, discovering breakfast in Pete's World, 300 words

Rose sits sipping her coffee, scone untouched on the plate before her and eyes open in relative horror as the Doctor returns from the buffet and sets his plate down on the table. It is his fourth trip and as he sits she can see his belly is more than a little distended beneath his t-shirt. 

This plate is piled high with scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, several slices of French toast, a few flapjacks she can see peeking out from beneath an eggs benedict dripping with Hollandaise sauce, a precarious mound of hash browns, two slices of black pudding, and a perfunctory tomato, as if he belated remembered to add something healthy. The other three plates he’s already consumed looked much the same.

He shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs and sausage into his mouth with a happy grin and Rose pushes her scone subtly away.

"Breakfast, Rose!" he exclaims as he chews. "Why did you never tell me how wonderful breakfast is?"

Breakfast on the TARDIS had always been a simple affair; a couple slices of toast with jam, sometimes toad in the hole, or an omelette. Always lots of tea. An intimate daily routine, in pajamas and robes, with scratchy sleep-heavy voices what to do that day before the TARDIS inevitably steered them somewhere else. Still, he was 900 years old, she thought breakfast had been simple because he preferred it that way, his favorite foods picked and chosen after many centuries of eating a morning meal.

Apparently she was wrong.

"Aren’t you going to eat?" he asked, muffled by a syrup-soaked flapjack.

"I think you’re doing fine for both of us, thanks."

"You’ll need your energy," he warns with a sticky leer, "for what I’ve planned for later."

She sticks her foot out and pokes his engorged belly with the toe of her trainer. He catches her foot, holds it there, wiggles his eyebrows. Suddenly an uncomfortable look crosses his face, and he lets out a loud belch. It breaks her and she dissolves into laughter, resting her forehead on the table as their neighbors look on curiously. He frowns, picks up a crispy slice of bacon, and shoves it in his mouth.


	8. Ballpoint pens, TenToo/Rose, 300 words

He thinks he might try being a tattoo artist in this universe. Torchwood feels stuffy and oppressive, makes him fidget and itch. He’s been quite surprised to discover he is  _tired_ , tired of everything about his old life. Tired of nonstop adventure, tired of threats, of yelling and running and violence and so much death. He still craves the rush of adrenaline (and it is adrenaline now, with this human body and this human endocrine system) that accompanies the sensation of falling, of doing something permanent and making a decision that cannot be undone, though.

“That tickles.” 

He looks up from the expanse of Rose’s skin he’d been drawing on, pulling himself up a bit so he’s hovering over her, twirling the blue biro between his index and middle fingers.

“Does it?” he leans up, pressing a kiss to her lips, then returns to his previous spot, sprawled out perpendicular to her on the bed, on his stomach, his head resting on her hipbone, her flat stomach his canvas. She combs her fingers through his hair slowly, dipping down occasionally to scratch the damp hairs curling against the base of his neck.

“What are you drawing, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps marking her with short lines, a circle here, an X there, moving up to her ribs, and then the underside of her breasts. Here is a swirl, there an arrow. She giggles, kicking her feet a little as he tosses the pen aside and lifting himself up so he is fully over her now, poised and waiting.

“So?” she asks again, “What have you drawn?”

He gives her a wicked smile and dips his head to take her nipple in his mouth. The word “Start” is scribbled just next to it.

“Treasure map,” he says, and follows it. 


	9. Dimension Cannon Rose/Nine, 300 words, Rose runs into Nine while looking for Ten

She sees him and it all pours out. Everything she half-thought about saying, confessing, teasing and prying, all those times she bit her tongue and let him brood, all those held-back words just come flying out of her. She runs her hands over soft black leather compulsively, to reassure herself that he is real (and, in turn, how cruel the universe - or multiverse - really is.) Then she tells him about the jumps, about how she’s looking for him, how she’ll  _find him_ , a him that is more brown and less broody but him all the same.

He is silent the whole time, watching her. His blue eyes flash and change, from wary to curious to fearful to awed. When she is done, out of words, a thick blanket of silence descends on them. Then it is suddenly, swiftly broken as a car drives down the deserted lane, blaring Westlife and shattering the mood. The wrong Westlife, she realizes. She feels a sudden dread he confirms by opening his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, that voice so familiar and beloved it reverberates through the soles of her shoes, “What’s your name again?”

She pushes the button and tries again. 


	10. TenToo/Rose, ways to keep entertained on long drives

He bought it on Gregslist after a three-and-a-half hour drive to Hull almost resulted in their fiery deaths thanks to his wandering hands. Not that she didn’t appreciate those hands, she appreciated them very much, and the rest of the man — body and mind, of course — that went with them, she just didn’t particularly appreciate them while trying to operate a big and powerful moving vehicle.

The Doctor, as usual, had other ideas and so: near fiery death.

But now she thinks that fiery death might have been better, might have been worth it, now that he’s discovered the unholy hell of the Bop-It.


	11. Ten/Rose, the TARDIS is mad at the Doctor

The Doctor glares at the console, sucking petulantly on his burnt fingertip. He is muttering quietly, angrily, and tries to reach for the tangle of wires he’d been working on again, but there is another shower of sparks and he jumps away instead.

On the jump seat, Rose sighs in sympathy, shakes her head, and gives the coral supporting the worn leather on which she lounges a loving stroke. 

“I know,” she murmurs softly. “He is  _rubbish_  at taking the hint.”


	12. TenToo/Rose, furnace

It doesn’t quite wake her but the bead of sweat rolling down her spine is enough to shake her out of what had been a sound sleep. The air around her is hot, thick, and humid, almost oppressive, and there are puffs of superheated air hitting her neck at regular intervals, like a radiator throwing a tantrum. She is trapped in a cage of heavy, hot limbs, and that’s what does it, what catapults her from dreamland and makes her push at the man draped around her who grumbles a decidedly not-awake protest at her actions. When he was alien his skin was always cool, but now he’s every inch the hot-blooded male, with the body  heat of a furnace to match.

"Oi, you could heat the whole house," she grumbles and he flops over with a sigh, taking half the blanket with him as he goes and she doesn’t mind, just lays there on her back and lets the cold air drift over her bare skin and lull her back to sleep.

He wakes up an hour later to find her still asleep but shivering and restless and when he stands to turn up the radiator in the corner she grabs him and curls into his side, claiming him as her own personal space heater; he doesn’t mind. 


	13. TenToo/Rose, their first "proper" date

She supposes he could’ve wooed her with champagne and roses, though the latter would be a bit on the nose. He also could’ve tried the old running-for-our-lives tactic, knowing how sweat adds to the slide of skin against skin pressed against rough brick walls in almost-exposed corners and how its saltiness adds to the flavor of her skin where her neck meets her shoulder. He could have taken her to the movies, or out to dinner, or to the park, or whisked her away to some exotic locale to recall the whirlwind travel of their former lives. 

Instead he comes home with a massive bouquet of daisies as two bundles of newspaper emitting the unmistakable scent of vinegar and salt.

"It’s our first date," he says with shy smile as she takes the flowers, too gobsmacked to speak, "we’re having chips."


	14. Nine/Rose, Ache

"Allright, let’s get you fixed up then."

He is being gruff with her, he knows, but Jack’s eyes on his back as he guides Rose down the hallway to the infirmary aren’t helping and neither is his precious companion’s downcast eyes and blank face. She’s limping slightly and he’s furious - with himself, with the Raxacoricofallapatorians who formed the angry mob that chased them from what  _should_  have been a simple delivery of an egg, an enemy given a second chance, with the specific alien who knocked her over and the five others who nearly trampled her, with Jack for being the one to help her up, with her for not running fast enough. No, scratch that last one; that one’s not fair.

"I know it hurts," he says as he helps her onto the table, not allowing himself to linger, to comfort with touches and the press of lips against skin and then lips against lips even though he wants to because, well, because no.

She looks away as he reaches for a futuristic piece of medical equipment, away from the distance in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, away from what she wants but can’t have; the ache she feels doesn’t come from her bones. 


	15. Ten x Rose, "This is how the world ends"

He collapses on top of her, heavy and sweaty and male but she doesn’t mind, not one bit. They can’t seem to stop giggling, can’t seem to stop nuzzling and kissing and touching, hands and fingertips ghosting over flesh compulsively. They were  _supposed_  to be doing something, she knows, supposed to be helping, there was a distress call or something like that, maybe a warning (not mauve, seafoam green which is another counterintuitive “universal” warning color that is universal to everywhere but Earth), and they were excited and breathless with adventure at first and then excited and breathless with each other and then just plain excited and breathless and sweaty and perhaps a bit worn out. She grins up at him, feels his skin rapidly cooling and a bead of sweat drop from his fringe onto her nose. 

"I think we were supposed to be rescuing a planet," she reminds him, but she can’t keep a straight face when she does. He grins back, big and goofy and totally inappropriate. 

"This is the way the world ends," he quotes, leaning down to nip at her lips, "This is the way the world ends—"

"With a bang," she says, arching her back and bucking where they’re still joined, raising an eyebrow pointedly. He whimpers; he can’t help it. She winks. "And a whimper."


	16. TenToo/Rose, he tells her about River and what he suspects she is to him in the future

He tells her haltingly, as if he’s embarrassed, or worried she may take offense. She cannot, for the life of her, imagine why. When he’s done there is silence: her digesting, him waiting, anticipating. The silence stretches for too long and he squirms.

"Say something," he asks - asks, does not beg - hoarsely. Slowly a smile breaks over her lips and she shakes her head, reaches out and cups his cheek. 

"You daft alien," she finally says, moving from beside him on the sofa to his lap, sliding into her hand into his hair. He looks up at her, mouth agape and eyes clouded with confusion and something like tentative awe. "I bet you drive her absolutely spare."


	17. TenToo/Rose, pun

He looked up at her from his position prone on the mattress. She knelt off to his side, contemplating him just as intensely. Her eyes swept his naked form, from taut stomach up to his face and then further, to where his hands were tied with one of his ties to a bar of her headboard. 

"Well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. She watched a grin spread over his face, one she knew far too well, "Not just going to stare are you? After all—"

"Oh don’t," she tried to cut him off, swinging a leg over his waist to straddle his hips and reaching to cover his mouth but he turned his face so she missed.

"After all," he began again, wiggling his fingers at her, "I’m perfectly ‘armless."


	18. TenToo/Rose, cold feet

It took enough just for him to propose, she knows, and so she’d been kind about the planning, making sure he had say in the most important decisions but keeping the minutiae (and the frenzy that had taken human form as her mother) away from him as much as possible. Still, as months turned to weeks and now weeks turned to a matter of days, she could tell it was starting to eat at him; it was starting to eat at her too.

"Rough day?" she asks as he flops onto the couch in their little living room, clutching her mug of tea closer to her face for warmth and for protection, resting its base on her knees where they’re drawn up against her chest. It was his idea to get married in winter, somewhere out in the country in the falling snow. It was also his idea to buy this little drafty flat, filled with antique fixtures and historical architectural flourishes, and a fireplace that seemed at first decorative and is, they now know, very, very important in the colder-than-their-original-universe winters. She shivers a little.

"Honestly, Pete’s almost as bad as your mother," the Doctor replies as he rolls his neck out. 

"Getting cold feet?" she teases, half-teases, mostly-teases. She knows he loves her, she just worries every time humanity confronts him too directly. He glances over at her, grins.

"Nah." He pauses, frowns as if considering. "Are you?"

She grins, scoots a little closer and wiggles her bare toes under his bottom. 

"Nah, not anymore."


	19. TenToo/Rose, "I can't"

He is so quite a new thing, she thinks on her knees before him, Cummings floating through her head unbidden.  _I like my body when it is with your body_ , indeed. He is 903 and three weeks old, naked from the waist down and pressed up against the pillar sink in her mother’s second floor powder room, his hands fisted in her hair, and he is trembling, trembling, trembling all over as she tugs his trousers slowly down slender legs. His boxer briefs – the same deep blue as the suit he’d landed with, even if he has more suits now, and trousers and jeans and the beginnings of the trappings of humanity piling up around him – are tented where he is hard, and he is very, very hard.

“Rose,” he chokes out as she pushes his trousers out of the way and leans in to nuzzle the cotton and the swollen flesh underneath. “Rose, I can’t.”

“No?” she asks, curling fingers around the elastic waistband and pulling down ever so slowly. He makes a high pitched, gurgling noise as she carefully moves his pants out of the way, and grasps her hair a little harder. “Oi, gentle.”

“Rose, your  _mum_ ,” he gasps as her nose brushes against exposed skin, but loosens his grip nonetheless. “She’s just outside, she’s—“

“In the backyard with Tony,” Rose points out.

“Still too close,” he argues but doesn’t push her away as she reaches up and grasps him, stroking lightly and then bringing him to her lips so she can press a delicate kiss to sensitive flesh. “I can’t, we can’t, we  _shouldn’t_ —“

“Oh Doctor,” she grins at him, enjoying his flushed cheeks and stunned, glassy gaze.  _They’re_  still such a new thing with so much to explore. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”


	20. TenToo/Rose || ohmyfuckinghellshitfuhhhh || 300 words

Her favorite things about him could fill ten editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica, if it existed here. She loves the way he carefully blows on his tea every morning, his human tongue sensitive in different ways than when he was Time Lord (more sensitive to temperature and to certain tastes he’d informed her from between her thighs, pausing for a monologue that drove her nearly as spare as his tongue had been driving her mad mere moments before). She loves how he talks to her little brother like he’s a miniature adult. She loves the way he crouches down as Tony babbles at him, regarding him as seriously as any diplomat he’s had to meet since he landed in Pete’s World with her. She loves the way he talks, period, loves that perhaps best of all – the way he chooses his words so exquisitely carefully. How he explains things thoroughly and with relish, and how he tells her he loves her without tripping over the words.

But he doesn’t curse. Of all the words available to him, the dirty words are the ones he avoids. Instead he plays with synonyms, with upstanding words in the place of the vulgar. So when he grunts in her ear, his voice straining and hoarse as he buries himself as deep inside her as he can, “ohmyfuckinghellshitfuhhhh” as he comes, it sends thrills and chills down her spine. She clamps her knees around his hips, stilling herself on him as she braces her hands on his chest, and grins that tongue-touched smile she knows he loves so much.

“What’s that?”

He’d look annoyed if he could, but he can’t, can just smile up at her, sated. It lulls her enough that he catches her off guard when he flips them.

“I said your turn.”


	21. Friendship bracelet, Ten/Rose, five sentences

He looks at the stripes and swirls of color: gold, indigo, violet, red. 

"So these bits of string mean we’re friends?" he asks as Rose finishes tying her own matching bracelet around her wrist.

"Best friends," she corrects him, "forever."

"Forever." It slips out before he can stop it, before he can think and conceal and hide how he really feels; he doesn’t take it back. 


	22. Ten/Rose, first time flying

She’s picking at her fingernails and she only does that when she’s nervous. As they settle into the two cramped, under-padded seats the Doctor watches Rose closely, trying to glean exactly what appears to be going wrong. She fidgets, buckling her seatbelt and then tightening it, then unbuckling and buckling it again. She pulls the safety card from the pocket in the seat in front of her, glances over the pictures and then quickly puts it back. He frowns.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah fine,” she says quickly, too quickly. His frown deepens.

“No you’re not. You’re fidgety. You’re never fidgety.”

“That’s not true,” she protests, but weakly. “I fidget all the time.”

“Only when you’re bored. And not like this.”

“Who says I’m not bored now?”

“There are magazines right there,” he gestures at the pocket in the seat back again. “To un-bored you.”

“No, ta,” she shakes her head. “They’re all… plane things.”

“So?”

“I’m not—I don’t—“

“Rose,” he says slowly, realization dawning. “Have you never flown before?”

She’s quiet for a long moment and when she answers it’s a mumble. “No.”

“Really? Not ever?”

“Not on a plane, no. I fly on the TARDIS with you.”

“That’s not flying.”

“Exactly.”

“Not even as a child?”

“We didn’t… Mum couldn’t. We’d take the train, Saturday Day Out tickets, the cheap ones, to Liverpool or Blackpool for games, but no proper trips, no planes. Too expensive,” she shakes her head as if to shake off the memories. “Plus, planes are dangerous. They crash.”

“Not often.”

“Often enough.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” she blusters but he sees it for the lie it is. Clicking his own seatbelt closed he grabs her hand and laces their fingers together tightly.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”


	23. Ten/Rose, awkward dirty talk, 300 words

It so fantastically good, the way his lips ghost over skin. He pauses only when he encounters fabric, her shirt and then her bra, reaching behind her to undo it. He draws it off her, fighting the urge to cover herself with her arms and is rewarded when he immediately swoops in and closes his mouth over her left breast. His tongue teases her nipple and she arches, almost hitting him the face with the suddenness of her movement.

“Careful,” he says with a soft laugh.

“Don’t stop,” she replies, a plea and a command.

As he moves down she can feel the vibration of his voice; he’s murmuring words against her skin but they’re too soft to hear, too jumbled to understand. He licks a line down from her bellybutton to the top of her jeans and she knows he has to stop, so she strains to listen to what he’s saying as he pulls back and away once more.

The words are still mumbled but she catches a snatch and when she does it makes her go absolutely still. He feels the change and glances up from where he’s about to pop her jeans button free to give her a quizzical look.

“What?”

The laugh is building in her throat but she manages to hold it back. “What did you just say?”

His mouth opens and closes twice, a bit like a landed fish, and his cheeks turn quite pink.

“Erm, nothing?”

She can’t hold the laugh back anymore; it bursts forth unbidden and he lets go of her hips to cross his arms indignantly across his chest. Carefully she maneuvers herself up and him onto his back. She straddles his waist and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Maybe right now,” she offers through giggles, “you shouldn’t talk.”


	24. TenToo/Rose, road trip, 300 words

He’s a terrible driver. It’s not that he can’t operate the car, it’s that he gets so distracted by everything around them, by telling her the history he knows from her universe and waiting to hear her recite the counter histories from Pete’s World, that he doesn’t see the green shift to amber, or notice the oncoming lorry, or bother to pay attention to the speed limit signs. The idea to take the Chunnel – a fixture of both universes – to Europe is a great one but halfway through the London traffic Rose is convinced another moment with him behind the wheel will result in a massive coronary for her and she she tells him to pull over.

He is a much better passenger; to her left his narration washes over her like waves on a shore, histories running back centuries and millennia, thousands of years of Time Lord knowledge in his Time Lord brain while his hand, human hot, holds her s where it rests on the gear shift. Soon enough they’re out of the Chunnel, off the ferry, and zipping through the French countryside and the Doctor moves on from history to botany, listing the plants whirling by the window as they head into Belgium, toward Ghent.

In fields of red poppies his fingertips skitter up her arm to her shoulder, brush against the back of her neck and tangle in her hair. He tells her that poppies symbolize sleep, and death, and peace. She tells him she thinks poppies are pretty, especially the red ones, asks if he agrees. He offers a noncommittal hum, and she glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Not looking for peace?” she asks, careful and fragile. He grins at her and cups her cheek.

“My peace comes from a rose.”


	25. Ten/Rose, melting snow

He’s got his face pressed against the window like a puppy when she comes out of the loo, tucking her dressing gown tight around her, and she can’t help but laugh.

“What are you doing?” she asks as she selects her mug from the kitchen island, drops a tea bag into it and pour steaming water from the kettle on top.

“It’s warm out.”

“So?” Tea steeping she walks across the room behind him, peers out at the back garden. Nothing seems out of the ordinary; there are still snow drifts but they’re interspersed with puddles, the first signs of the first melt.

“It’s  _warm_  out.”

“And it’s not safe enough to go outside so you’re using the protective barrier of a pane of glass to experience it vicariously?”

He turns to her properly, holding her hips lightly as he looks up with a very earnest and serious expression.

“Rose. It’s  _warm_  out. The snow is melting.”

“And that’s…” she can’t tell which way this is going to go and he doesn’t jump in to reply so she tries to do it for him. “Good? Bad? Inconvenient? Symbolic of something I don’t understand?”

“The snow melts, the plants bloom, spring comes.” He lets go of her hips and rises before her, then steps closer, a grin filled with excitement and promise and something more sultry beneath it all. “Winter was long. I’m ready for spring. For birds and bees and seeds…”

His words set off a flutter deep in her stomach, more than butterflies but less than a hurricane, the thrill of his instigation. They’ve danced around this topic all winter, the natural next step, the future she never thought she’d want but she does, she wants it with him and does he want it too? And here he is, nose reddened from being pressed against a window pane, and his answer yes, yes, yes.

“Is that so?” is all she can say in return, her throat tight with hope and her own delight.

“Yes,” he says, drawing her close, her mug held carefully between them. “I’m ready for the bloom.”


	26. Nine/Rose, farmer's market or grocery store, three sentences

Rose peers at the man in black leather staring at the bunch of turnips in his hand as if they’re about to detonate; it’s rude to stare but she can’t look away, her attention pulled towards him by something she can’t quite define.

"You look at little lost," she ventures after a moment, "can I help?"

"Newly vegetarian," he answers, clipped and reserved, and when he looks up his eyes are like ice and fire to the very center of her. "There was a war."


	27. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - TenToo/Rose (AU)

**First sentence: It was during her five-minute walk from the flat to the shop 'round that corner that she saw him, for the first time. [ asked by [lixabiz](http://lixabiz.tumblr.com/)]**

For a moment she thought the tuft of brown was a bird, a sparrow, perhaps, perched on her neighbor’s hedge. She whistled softly at it, hoping just once it would not scare the creature away but entice it to return the call; she was not prepared for a the tuft to suddenly lift upwards, reveal itself as a wild head of hair above piercing brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” a voice she assumed was attached to the piercing brown eyes said from behind the hedge, “did you just  _whistle_  at me?”

Rose froze, heat rising in her cheeks and spreading down her neck as her mouth worked, trying and failing to produce words, an excuse, an explanation,  _anything_. 

The eyes crinkled at their edges as if their owner was smirking and then, quite to her surprise, he whistled back. 


	28. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - Ten/Rose

**The elephant wasn't actually pink, as the Doctor expected, it was green with orange polka-dots. [ asked by [gallifreyburning](http://gallifreyburning.tumblr.com/)]**

He stared at it, the way it pranced up to the door of the cell and then stopped to peer fetchingly over its shoulder. It held his gaze for a moment and winked; the Doctor let out a delighted giggle and clapped his hands, jangling his manacles.

“Oh for god’s sake,” muttered Rose, sparing him a look less pitying and more irate as she tried the sonic on another setting. He pouted, trying his best to put on his most pathetic face as the elephant began its playful, if oddly dutiful, march back towards him, which just made him giggle again.

When Rose teased later than the previous him, with his impressive ears, would’ve been better at playing Dumbo, he was markedly less amused.


	29. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - TenToo/Rose

**The thing about stealing a million-dollar painting is that you need somewhere special to hang it. [ asked by [gallifreyburning](http://gallifreyburning.tumblr.com/)]**

The Doctor steps back from the false fireplace in their flat, a silly little human thing he’d scoffed at and Rose had adored and he has always been helpless to say no to her, and admires his handiwork. Sturdy but simple black frame, spotless glass, and the swirls of eternity just beneath.

It’s not for the sitting room, not really, it’s meant for the TARDIS, the little glowing baby in a hidden corner of their back garden, for when she’s big enough to fly, to  _soar_ , and they’ll be inside her laughing all the way, admiring the stars outside and the stars inside as well. As well they should – only $1,000,000 for Starry Night? This universe was cocked up in ways the Doctor had never been able to imagine in those early, discombobulated days. 

The jingle of keys in the front door signals Rose’s arrival, and he turns on his heel and smiles at her as she walks into the room, nattering about something or other. It doesn’t matter because as soon as she lays eyes on him she goes silent. Her purse drops to the floor with a thunk and her eyes slide from his Cheshire Cat grin, to the painting, and back again. He opens his mouth to begin his pitch, his  _absolutely sound_  reasoning to steal a Van Gogh from the British Museum archives, but she holds up a hand and effectively cuts him off.

“No,” she says, closing her eyes and turning towards the kitchen where he knows she’ll fetch a beer from the fridge; they’ve done this dance before. “Nope, nopity, no. Tell me later.”


	30. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - Ten/Rose

**"We're going to have to have a talk after this about your weird and outdated Timelord hangups about shagging." [ asked by [lixabiz](http://lixabiz.tumblr.com/)]**

When he stops moving to stare down at her quizzically, Rose considers this might just have as big and inconvenient a gob as he. 

“What?” he pants, his hair astonishingly mussed (and she thought she’d seen it as messy as it could get), his face shining with sweat. In fact, there’s a little bead at the tip of his nose she longs to lick off but the way he’s got her positioned beneath him, one leg over his shoulder and the other wrapped tight around his waist , the best she can manage is to reach for his face to pull him back down to her. “Hangups?? I don’t have any hangups.”

“You do,” she wiggles a little beneath him to encourage him to start moving again but he doesn’t. 

“I do not,” he frowns, his eyes losing that glazed lusty look and sharpening far too much into focus than she’d like.  She squeezes him inside her, which dulls the focus a bit, but he doesn’t let it go. “Name one.”

“I can name five,” she says and moves her hands from hair to shoulders, scratching lightly in that way that makes him shiver. His gaze turns a little fuzzier.

“So name them,” he challenges. 

“After,” she says, pleads a little bit. “I said after. We’ll talk after.” 

For good measure she gives him another squeeze. That seems to do the trick and he starts thrusting again, the slide of him in and out of her burning and so very warm. She closes her eyes and when he speaks, she feels the words where he growls them out against her jaw.

“You know I’m only hung up on you.”


	31. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - Ten/Rose

**There was a horrible screech of metal on metal, and then silence. [ asked by [sequence-fairy](http://sequence-fairy.tumblr.com/)]**

The Doctor held still under the grating, sucking on his burnt finger and listening for sounds of life, for sounds of pleasure or displeasure from either his ship or his companion. For a long time there was nothing, then the soft padding of feet followed by a voice gone hoarse from sleep.

“Doctor?“

“Yes, Rose?” He poked his head out from under the console and turned to her with eyes as big, innocent and doe-like as possible. Her hair was mussed, her t-shirt and sweatpants askew as if hastily pulled on. He tried not to dwell on that thought and tugged on his ear instead.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. Right as rain.”

“Is she all right?” She nodded towards the console.

“Oh, yes! Fine! Or I think she’s fine. Really, I’m sure she’s fine. Just a spark here, a little under-oiling there. She will be fine. Shortly. Fine shortly.”

Her eyes narrowed at him.

“Did you mean to do that?”

“I,” his hand migrated to the back of his neck of its own accord. “Well, not exactly. It was a possible outcome, to be sure, but it wasn’t exactly intentional, no.”

“Can you undo it?”  
  
“Of course!” He frowned and puffed his chest out a bit. “Look at me, I’m brilliant.”

“Riiiight,” she drawled, sounding very much like she did not believe him. He frowned. She frowned back. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Goodnight, Rose.”

He watched her walk away, grinned to himself, and ducked back beneath the grating. He was just reaching for an oilcan and rag when her voice rang out from the hallway.

“And when you’re done we’re still visiting my mum!”


	32. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - Ten/Rose

**First sentence: "Errr, Rose, not that I don't like your outfit, because honestly, it is brilliant. Beyond brilliant, but you're going to have to change or you'll be arrested the moment you walk out the door. Or... We could just, I don't know, stay in?" [ asked by [whoinwhoville](http://whoinwhoville.tumblr.com/)]**

Rose paused at the bottom of the ramp, hand hovering just above the doorknob. She looked down at her dress, a simple knee-length shift with a very flattering and simple halter top and a beautiful flare to the skirt. It was a delicious deep turquoise color and while the jersey fabric clung quite fetchingly to her figure, she wouldn’t call it indecent enough to warrant arrest. She turned on her heel (and for once, for  _once,_ she was actually wearing a pair of heels and not shoes more suitable for running) and faced the Doctor, who had his hands jammed deep in his coat pockets.

“Really? In this?”  
  
“Oh yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Absolutely. N-not, not that you’re not beautiful, your’e very beautiful, Rose, but what a waste of a dress to confine to to a prison cell don’t you think?”

“This dress,” she said, gesturing to it. He nodded. Her eyes narrowed. “They’ll arrest me for this dress. In 2007?”

“What if it’s not 2007, though? Could be 1907,” he said, and glanced back toward the console. “You know how she gets.”

“But it  _is_  2007,” she pressed, stalking slowly up the ramp until she was standing directly in front of him with what she quite hoped was a thunderous expression. “It’s 2007 because it’s Cousin Mo’s bridal shower and I promised I’d attend and  _you_  promised I’d be  _on time_.”

“I, er, um,” He dug his hands deep in his pockets, looking lost and afraid and casting his eyes about the room as if for a lifeline, but it was empty save for the two of them. “Well–”

“ _Doctor_ –”

Before she could get the rest of her threat out, however, his hand was suddenly out of his pocket, sonic brandished like a weapon. There was a brief whirr, a slight tingle, and then the top of her dress unravelled at the seams, flopping open around her waist to reveal the very spare and lacy white strapless bra that she had intended to be his reward for letting her have this very human night out.

For a long moment no one moved.

“Oh look,” the Doctor choked out finally. “I suppose we’ll have to stay in after all.”


	33. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - TenToo/Rose

**"Hold on," he said, taking a languorous lick, "Rose, it tastes exactly like bananas!" [ asked by [experimentingwithbackcombing](http://experimentingwithbackcombing.tumblr.com/)]**

She stared at him, every muscle in her body tensed as she fought not to retch. Between the heat, the humidity, and the scents of the market, it took all her concentration.

The Doctor waggled the popsicle in her direction. She physically recoiled. He took it back with a hurt look and followed her away from the market stall.

Usually she loved this, when he dove headfirst into Pete’s World the way he used to dive headfirst into the universe, and their trips through Asia seemed to bring him back to his most innate self; the lush jungles, winding rivers, dense cities, and almost alien rural landscapes brought out the tireless explorer in him, curious and brazen and enthusiastic to a fault. And, much like when they had the TARDIS and all of time and space at their disposal, every trip made her fall even more in love with him.

But everything, every _one,_ had a limit. And she had just found hers, in a small stall in the furthest corner of this Thai market and the durian ice cream the Doctor was licking in a way he usually preferred to lick  _her_.

He seemed to catch the direction of her thoughts because he wiggled his eyebrows at her and took another suggestive lick. 

If she’d been able to pay attention while retching into a nearby trashcan, she would have found his expression  _hilarious_. 


	34. Write the first sentence of a fic, I'll write the next five - Ten/Rose

**Sentence prompt: "It was the tautness of the cotton over his shoulders. Yep. Not her fault in the least." [ asked by [helplesslynerdy](http://helplesslynerdy.tumblr.com/)]**

The tie stuck halfway on its journey over his head, mushing his nose to one side and skewing his kissed-swollen lips well, that was both of them really. She’d started it but he’d finished as such. Or not. But not her fault either.

His one sock-clad foot was all him. She’d had her own shoes and socks to worry about and she’d gotten both of those off just fine.

And his coat, she’d even hung his coat on the back of the chair beside her bed. Like a  _lady_.

That he’d been rushed and frantic and had decided to stop unbuttoning the oh-so-perfectly fitted shirt and just pull it over his head, that he’d chosen to flex his surprisingly broad chest and shoulders and the cotton, the poor innocent cotton, that it had just given way with a  _riiiip_ , that wasn’t her fault at all.

(And besides, she had been rushed and frantic, too, but her jeans and her t-shirt and her  _bra -_ her bra  _as well_  and that had  _hook and eye closures_  - had all ended up on the floor just fine, thank you very much.)

Her eyes landed on his trousers, unbutton and unzipped but still held precariously on narrow hips by his erection and she couldn’t hold back the smirk. Now that,  _that_  was entirely her fault. And she was glad to take the blame.


End file.
